“An absolute delight,” Scarlett says, taking my hand.
I smile and offer a small curtsy. So this is the owner ofGriffin House? Our younger maids whisper about him with the greatest reverence.According to them, he’s God’s gift to women and quite without equal in degreesof handsomeness and sophistication.
He turns toward Kelly. “How is it that I’ve never met thislovely creature? Been hiding her away, have you? Keeping her all to yourself?”
Kelly laughs. “I’m afraid she’s spoken for, Scarlett. Yourhopes are dashed.”
I ignore the banter and use my gift of olfaction. Interesting.
No scent to Mr. Scarlett at all. No emotions of any kind, nosweat on warm skin. Not even a drop of liquor to his breath. If I hadn’t heardhis footsteps and voice, I’d swear Kelly and I were standing here alone. Ofcourse, there are exceptions with olfaction, rare people whom I find difficultto read. Perhaps this man is one of those.
Out of the blue, Scarlett asks for a dance. What? How embarrassing.Does he not realize I am blind? A bolt of terror runs through me and my limbsfeel gawky and uncoordinated. I turn to Kelly, seeking rescue, but he does notintervene. The doctor takes my cane.
“It’s a party, Hester. Enjoy yourself. I’ll give the cane backwhen your dance is finished.”
Scarlett puts his hand at my waist and draws me onto the floor.“It’s easy, Miss Grayson,” he says in a kind voice. “Just follow my lead.”
My partner is a sublime instructor. He negotiates the floor effortlessly,skilled enough to put a sightless neophyte at ease. At last, a town rake wholives up to his legend!
“Thank you,” he murmurs, when the set is finished.
We are walking back to Kelly when another fellow steps forward.He returns me to the dance floor before I can refuse. The night goes onforever, or so it seems according to my dance card. I must be a novelty to themen of Stonehenge. Yet we have accomplished nothing in regards to solvingMaude’s murder, even though I have listened to most of the men in the room.
Kelly has not returned with my cane, and my feet are aching.Cursing the inventor of high-heeled shoes, I limp off the dance floor with thehelp of my last partner. He is anxious to conquer the next lady and leaves mein a quiet alcove. A curtain divides the tiny space from the rest of theballroom, and I pull it aside, desperate for a moment of relative peace. Thesilk sofa cushions feel like heaven beneath my weary back. Dancing is hard,dangerous work, and I want nothing more to do with it. Let Maude haunt me allshe likes.
“Parties can be so tiresome,” a voice says from the other sideof the sofa. “Especially if there’s dancing.”
The woman sounds friendly. For want of a better reply, I pointto my throat and shake my head.
“Oh, you don’t speak? That’s all right. My husband says I talkenough for ten people.”
I smile at her self-deprecation, and she laughs softly.
“My name’s Cecily Thornhill. I was a Vaughn before I married myDavid.” Cecily pats my knee, laughs again. “Forgive my tendency to ramble. Ihaven’t been out in public since Junior was born.”
I like this lady. She has a genuine, endearing quality abouther. Like a child with an enormous amount of love to give and not enough peopleto give it to.
“Have you always lived in Stonehenge?” Cecily asks.
I nod in reply.
“Perhaps you could visit our place in Summerton when theweather improves? It’s only twenty miles by train. We could make a day of itand—” She stops midsentence and releases a happy-sounding sigh. “I always getcarried away. David says I’m far too enthusiastic, but it is so nice tomake a new acquaintance.”
Cecily talks for twenty minutes straight, and I find we havemuch in common. Both of us like having books read aloud, the smell of lilacs,and cashmere blankets. But neither of us enjoys liverwurst, oysters, ordentistry. While I am pleased at the prospect of gaining a friend, I remindmyself of my true purpose in attending this party. I try to think of an excusethat would allow me to go in search of Kelly.
Then Cecily turns toward the left and fairly quivers withexcitement.
“Oh, David,” she says. “There you are!”
“It’s getting late, darling. We should go. Can’t having youtiring yourself.”
I freeze in my corner of the sofa.
David Thornhill is Mr. Murder.
16
Quem di diligunt, adulescens moritur.
He whom the gods love dies young. —Plautus
Pullingthe alcove curtain forward, I hope to conceal my profile, but Cecily pushes itaside. “Let me introduce you to my new bosom friend. Don’t be bashful, dear.Show yourself, and meet my David.”
I feel his gaze running over me. “Do we know each other?” heasks, a puzzled note in his voice.
As soon as I shake my head, I sense a new tension in the air. Thornhillremembers Halloween night. Will he tell his wife about our encounter in thegazebo? When I touched the killer’s face and he thought me mad?
No. He ignores me instead and chats with Cecily about Juniorneeding her at home.
“Would you like a last glass of punch before we go, dearestwife?” Thornhill asks. “It’s rather good.”
“Oh, I’ve already had too much, David.” Cecily stands andtouches my arm. “I hear Mr. Scarlett built a ladies room for this event. Marblefloors, golden sinks. Why don’t we visit it together?”
Yes, let’s do that. I’d like to get away from Mr. Murder nowthat I have his real name. Pushing up from the sofa, I turn toward Cecily, asthough I intend to leave with her.
“Your friend needn’t follow you to the lavatory,” DavidThornhill says. “Run along, sweetheart. I’ll keep her company until you return.”
She laughs, apparently chagrined. “Bossiness is one of my worstfaults. If you don’t wish to go, I won’t make you.”
What I don’t wish is to remain here with her husband. I move tofollow Cecily, but Thornhill grabs my waist and pushes me in the oppositedirection. Unaware of his actions, his wife continues on the other way.
We leave the ballroom through a side entrance, and I call outfor Tom in my head.
Killer’s
